Chapter 3 - The King of Red Hook
The convoy did not use sirens, but the traffic along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway parted like the Red Sea. Traffic lights miraculously turned green as city surveillance teams cleared the corridors under Dominic’s payroll.
Nora gripped the leather seat, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Breathe, Nora," Dominic said softly from the darkness beside her. He hadn't drawn his weapon. He hadn't raised his voice. He sat with his hands resting calmly on his knees, looking like an emperor traveling to a routine banquet.
"How can you be this calm?" she whispered, turning to him with tears burning her eyes. "My sister is nineteen. She has never heard a gunshot in her life."
"Panic is a luxury reserved for the dead," Dominic said, his eyes scanning the rainy waterfront through the tinted glass. "Rostov wants an emotional reaction. He expects you to arrive terrified, weeping, and ready to beg."
"I am terrified!"
"I know," Dominic murmured, turning his head to look directly into her soul. "That is why you will stay behind me. You have spent three years holding my life together, Nora. Tonight, you let me hold yours."
The Maybach slowed, turning down a desolate cobblestone avenue flanked by towering, decaying brick warehouses. The Gowanus Canal reeked of stagnant water, oil, and wet timber.
Pier 41 loomed ahead—a massive, rusted steel structure jutting out into the black water of the harbor.
Four rusted industrial floodlights bathed the gravel apron in a harsh, yellowish glow. Parked outside the main sliding cargo bay were three heavily customized SUVs bearing diplomatic plates.
Rostov wasn't just a mafia boss; he had consular immunity through corrupt back channels in Eastern Europe.
The convoy came to a halt fifty yards away. The rain drummed violently against the reinforced roof of the Maybach.
"Arthur," Dominic spoke into the vehicle's intercom. "Form the box. Nobody enters, nobody leaves."
"Yes, Mr. Falcone."
Dominic stepped out into the freezing deluge, opening an oversized black umbrella and holding it over the passenger door. He offered his hand to Nora.
She took it. His grip was an anchor in a raging sea.
As they walked toward the open cargo bay, the heavy steel doors groaned. Six men emerged from the shadows, their automatic rifles leveled at Dominic’s chest.
Behind them, standing atop an elevated metal catwalk, was Victor Rostov. He wore an expensive gray sheepskin coat, holding an ivory-handled cane in his left hand.
Beside him, tied to a rusted iron stanchion, was Lily. Her yellow sweatshirt was torn at the shoulder, her eyes swollen and red from continuous sobbing.
"Nora!" Lily screamed, her voice cracking against the wind. "Nora, run!"
One of Rostov's men raised a backhand to strike the girl.
May you like
Before the blow could land, a muffled crack echoed from the water behind the warehouse. The guard’s head snapped sideways, and he collapsed over the railing, tumbling thirty feet into the darkness below.
A red laser dot danced across Rostov's forehead.
